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2024.09.16: Two singers
Aafter midnight, Sheridan will take a walk through the Lion’s Tail. He won’t be armed and will happily announce his presence with a razzle-dazzle Singin’ in the Rain version of Neil Diamond’s back catalog. But mostly it’s the crap end of town and therefore most likely to have a 24 hour gun range. There is indeed a 24 hour garage. This part of town is not so much shitty as old. Houses and buildings look like they have been here for a good while and the layout feels more organic. The main drag through the neighborhood might be the original main street. The singing stops. And instead is replaced with a genuine curiosity, and sad sighs. He shakes his head. This reminds him of home; a city centre that was gutted to make way for a mall and an Ikea, which slowly drizzled up all the shops elsewhere. He’ll stay long enough to get a picture of the area, before heading back North to his usual haunt: among the students on the fringes of New Albion and the campus. Quiet little town. Peaceful. Almost cozy. It might not be so hard to grasp why the singer with the occasional country Irish burr creeping into her voice is so invested when the town is seen from this side of the river. Sheridan will scrunch his eyes at some of the thoughts that flicker into his mind, walk to the river, take deep simulated breaths. Keep mad little thoughts in check. A glance up to the skyscrapers. “Why do we always end up crushing the interesting and the beautiful?” It’s a lament. Who or what he’s talking about is between him and the sky. The shiny skyscraper has no answers. It is beautiful, a marvel of architecture, but not as interesting as the older part of town. Just glittery and new. “This town isn’t inclined to stop growing, even if there aren’t enough people to fill it.” He sighs. Another song to mind. “You pave paradise, put up a parking lot, with a big hotel, a boutique and a swingin’ hotspot.” Nobody sings back. It is early and this is not campus, after all. The Malkavian squeezes his eyes shut and begins to gently rock back and forth. As if he could somehow reach out to the world and pull himself free of his body, transcend the world where cold Ventrue steel and dead flesh are immaterial constructs. The breathing stops entirely now as he desperately tries to force his essence out of his body and away from the clean, boring nightmare built on the graveyard of interesting imperfections. No such luck. Sheridan is just as trapped as everyone else in this incarnate life. However, the river is pretty and the lights dancing on the water glitter like the unseen stars. The Malkavian walks to the river’s edge, to the moment where you can fall forever. Stares deep into it. Stares into his reflection, the mirage etched on the perfect canvas of the milk-flat surface. Like a shore he knew a long time ago. When if you sank into the mud you never returned; the Earth consumed. Only a voice called him away and promised her everything that mattered. The breathing does not restart, but the ink of the water drizzles the glow of the false constellations wrought by Gordon’s Babel, and it calms the needs and urges that scream throughout a taxed mind. Sheridan backs away, and looks for bridge north, out of Brujah territory. The nearest bridge is several blocks east of his location. As he gets closer, he can hear soft singing. It is particularly plaintive. "I sailed away;/Wandered afar; /Crossed the mighty restless sea; /Looked for where I ought to be. /Cities so grand, mountains above, /Led to this land I love." The singer sounds...homesick. Sheridan frowns, listens, and, like the voice were a lighthouse in the dark of night - or a siren on the rocks - can do little but follow it to its source. A girl on the bridge, looking at the water. Or at least the way the lights of the city reflected into it. Singing to nobody but herself, here in a liminal space. Mercifully alone, because the talent would draw a crowd even in an empty field if any were awake to hear her. "Drifting with the current down a moonlit stream,/While above the Heavens in their glory gleam,/And the stars on high/Twinkle in the sky,/Seeming in a paradise of love divine,/Dreaming of a pair of eyes that looked in mine./Beautiful Ohio, in dreams again I see/Visons of what used to be." The moment a surrealist postmodern Disney one. It only lacked some birds and a big strong man to solve all her problems. Sheridan bites a lip. A singer in streetlight silhouette. He takes time to listen. And try not to think. But the only thing in his mind is the voice. Her voice. My voice. Filling the head to the point of intoxication. Quietly, slipped into shadow, Sheridan walks over, watching the eyes staring into the water, in a moment succumbed. Even his latest life seems like so much empty ashen folly compared with the solitary singer on an ill-met night. The Seneschal of New Albion continues singing to herself and contemplating the skyline's reflection in the water. There seems to be some odd connecting theme that is not readily apparent to anyone not intimately familiar with the history of music in the Midwest. Everything from The Pretenders to Judas Priest and The Black Keys to Roy Rogers and "That Thing Called Love" in the style and manner of Mamie Smith. She seems terrifyingly oblivious to her surroundings, or perhaps she knows that this is a heavily watched area and a response to anyone daring to brush against her would be swift and unpleasant. No. No. Can’t... can’t hold it in. Can’t resist it. Sheridan steps out of the shadow as the latest song ends, a short distance away, sat on the pavement, arms bracketed around legs, knees up to chin, in a ball. And, in a low but clear voice, easy to hear, says. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I truly am. I think that’s the most genuine thing I’ve heard you sing yet. But I need to ask you that favor. I have to ask you that favor. That’s why I need the favor.” Sheridan’s words and rhythms. Only the voice that slips out of his mouth is not his own. It’s Doris’. There is a start. A hand drops to a weapon that is not there because of course she is wandering around the city barefoot and unarmed. Stupid girl. She whips around and hisses, fangs bared, defensive a moment. Then, seeing the boy-shaped entity compacted into themselves on the sidewalk, she relaxed. But only a little. "That is quite the imitation. How are you managing it?" Neutrally. “It’s a terrible imitation,” the voice continues. “This is just practice. Study. Observation. An obsession with the small notes that you, or anyone else, can’t hide.” There is a sigh. “Quite the imitation, still without artifice,” he rises, hands open in a quiet plea that he means no harm, “would be this.” Sheridan’s posture shifts, weight balance changes, caution and concern fall into his muscles like old friends. And suddenly he’s mirroring Doris’ posture as well as her voice. "What is the favor you ask of me?" Formal. “I need to be you.” Sheridan turns and looks out at the water. “I need to be Doris Ashview. Only for a while.” Restless glances look out on the lights, body arched as if he were to sing songs of Ohio. “Only a little while and your voice will be out of my mind. I do not wish to do anything related to court. I only really wish to sing. To know what it feels like to stand on the stage with that voice and for all ears to listen, all hearts to beat with you.” "You are so sweet, thinking me able to capture all attention. We shall see how good your illusions are, however. I suspect there are two people within the city who will not be fooled no matter how clever you are. We shall see." She pads over to Sheridan, a tiny, sad smile twitching the corner of her mouth. "Home is on a riverbank, as is the other place my heart resides. This reminds me of it sometimes, at the right angle." “I know,” Sheridan sighs sadly, still looking out. “I didn’t follow you. I came to the riverbank tonight wanting to be alone, to clear my thoughts. I looked up at Gordon Tower and felt that this city was consuming something older and more meaningful. Then I looked deep into the water and began to sing of home. I grew up on the banks of Solent, in England. It was only when I heard you and saw you here that I realised I wasn’t thinking of home at all. You were.” “That’s the worst part. Sometimes I’m not sure what idea is mine, and which is copying the voice in my head. Before it’s always been mortals. This complicates things.” "You and I have a thing or two in common. I, too, know the wisdom in madness." “And hiding in plain sight.” "The closer we are to danger, the safer we become." Paraphrased. “Might as well be New Albion’s motto. This whole place is bad news. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be here.” Gavin’s voice returns to normal. “I’m crazy, but I’m not stupid.” "You are not held here." Gently. “I am.” Sheridan says, finally making eye contact. “Just not for a reason most like us would understand.” There’s a heavy sigh; already said too much. A weak smile. "You shall have to tell me the story. Walk with me a while?" Not an order. Sheridan nods, hands in pockets. A little awkward that he’s exposing himself entirely, giving free ammunition to another kindred. But also he’s already gone too far. He falls into step with Doris, walking the streets north. “I’m... well, that part doesn’t matter. Back when I had a pulse, I had one person who cared about me. We weren’t lovers. Just two misfits who loved each other’s company. When I was embraced, she was the only thing I regretted leaving behind. That was almost 40 years ago. A couple of months back, I decided to search for her again. She’s in New Albion. And I just wanted to... I don’t know. Talk to her again? Be a guardian angel? Too many of our kind don’t care about collateral damage. She had my back when nobody else did. I’m returning the favour.” "You are right there. Not many care the way they ought...not after a certain age." Doris has pockets in her autumn-colored Stevie Nicks skirt. She stuffs her hands into them. There is no comment about this special human. She leads the both of them northward, towards the quiet residential streets of North Albion. Category:Logs